Satire recoils whenever charged too high; round your own fame the fatal splinters fly.

Life's cares are comforts; such by Heav'n design'd; He that hath none must make them, or be wretched.

Less base the fear of death than fear of life.

Let no man trust the first false step of guilt; it hangs upon a precipice, whose steep descent in last perdition ends.

When pain can't bless, heaven quits us in despair.

This vast and solid earth, that blazing sun, Those skies, thro' which it rolls, must all have end. What then is man? The smallest part of nothing.

But fate ordains that dearest friends must part.